Tap at my Window
by OperaAngel
Summary: A mysterious female visitor wearing a man's coat, "a message" for Sherlock. The return of an old "friend". And there was John, hoping for a cup of tea and a chance to update his blog! Note: will not take The Reichenbach Fall into account until much later.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Ok, so I wanted to get this one out before next Sunday as I know where I want to go with it, meaning it will be set somewhere between the end of A Scandal in Bohemia and next week's The Reichenbach Fall. I'm not the type that usually likes making up my own characters, but this idea simply would not leave my head, so go easy on me! Unbeta-ed because... well, I've not had chance to find a beta yet, that's why! Any feedback is good feedback, feel free to tell me it's a terrible idea (I'd probably even agree with you!), but don't feel like you have to review, just being here reading this is good enough for me. This a/n turned out a bit longer than expected...

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock, Watson and anyone else you recognise belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, et al. The "visitor" belongs to my imagination. The title is the name of a song by Laura Marling.

**Tap at my Window**

If anyone were to ask him, Sherlock Holmes could tell you that the anonymous black Mercedes with the tinted windows pulled up outside 221 Baker St exactly 3 minutes and 47 seconds before its passenger exited and the car drove off. In that time he had both deduced and dismissed five possible theories as to the identity of their unknown visitor. They went as follows:

Mycroft. Although a Mercedes wasn't his usual style (Mycroft being more the BMW type), and Mycroft loathed dawdlers, as he had so often told his younger brother, so he would have little reason to do so himself.

A new client. No, a client who was nervous enough to wait 3 minutes and 47 seconds before leaving his car would have asked it to wait, not allowed it to drive off and leave him stranded.

A lost driver, stopped to consult a map. This theory was disproven when the passenger did, in fact, get out of the car.

Irene Adler, just checking in. Even Sherlock's own mind saw the ridiculousness of that scenario.

Moriarty. Another "game" of his, meant to mess with their heads. Again, not really his style. Jim Moriarty would have walked by in plain sight, throwing the window a jaunty wave as he went, not stopped outside in a tinted car.

As the unknown passenger made their way first to the door and then, after Mrs Hudson opened the door to them, up the staircase to 221b, Sherlock was able to make several more deductions:

_Female. Height between 5ft and 5'3" (unable to make a more accurate estimate without further data). Brunette. Men's overcoat, clearly not the woman's own choice of clothing judging by how uncomfortable she looked wearing it. Nervous, pause and sigh before ringing the doorbell suggested she was not here of her own accord. Slight limp to on the left leg, also a problem with the right wrist as she wasn't using the handrail, despite obvious difficulty. _

"Sherlock, this woman says she's here to see you, but she says she's not a client," said the ever-useful Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I was just about to send John to answer the door," the detective replied dismissively.

"Yes, well, I'm not your housekeeper." said the petite elderly lady before turning to go back to her own flat, just as John said, "I'm sorry, just about to what?"

It cannot be sure which of these two comments made the detective snort, somewhat derisively, but he didn't bother to turn away from his perch at the window in order to address his mysterious 'guest'.

"So, who are you then, if not a client? Why do you wish to see me?"A huff of frustration, disturbingly familiar, came from the woman.

"A message," came her curt reply. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to John as she walked further into the room, but came to rest several feet from Sherlock and seemed to focus all her attention on a spot in the middle of his turned back.

Sherlock froze for 2.8 seconds before quite literally shaking himself and spinning around with such force it would have given a prima ballerina whiplash. His jaw dropped. John later remarked that he'd never seen his flatmate look any more like a stunned goldfish. When it became apparent that the detective was not, in fact, going to respond, John decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Err, sorry," he started haltingly, "but Sherlock asked you two questions, and I can't help noticing that you only answered the second." The woman glanced briefly back at the doctor before resuming her staring contest with his flatmate.

"The answer to the two questions is one and the same, Dr Watson." She cocked her head slightly to the side, raised her eyebrows and levelled the detective with a challenging stare. "Besides, Sherlock knows exactly who I am, don't you, brother dear?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:Anything you recognise isn't mine! I own Sherlock's sister, it's why she's so messed up :P

John supposed this was the kind of silence that they were referring to when they said "you could hear a pin drop". In this case, John thought that pin would probably sound like it was wearing a microphone and being broadcast live on the radio. His "miniscule brain," as Sherlock had once called it, could not even _begin_ to think up a suitable response to this most recent bombshell. Sherlock didn't appear to be faring any better, although, to be fair, that could just be the detective's pride and stubbornness refusing to let him lose at a staring contest.

As it appeared that neither party were paying attention to him (nothing new there, then!), John took the opportunity to get a closer look at the woman, Sherlock's sister, if she were to be believed. The dark brown curls that fell just past her shoulders certainly supported her claim, as did the pale, blue-grey eyes. They had a similar nose, hers on a less prominent scale than his, but still much more alike than that of Mycroft. It was also apparent that she had not inherited the lofty height of the two brothers, quite the opposite in fact, as she barely came to the detective's shoulder. Not possessing the Holmes family's deductive skills, John would place the woman's age in the early to mid-twenties bracket, making her significantly younger than Sherlock, who was in turn seven years younger than Mycroft.

"Elizabeth." _She has a name then, _thought John, _good to know! _Apparently, having given their sons the rather unique names "Sherlock" and "Mycroft", they had decided to be a bit more traditional with their daughter.

"Sherlock." _Oh no, _he thought with a barely noticeable sigh, _I can feel the "Mycroft's here and Sherlock's being mulish" headache coming on again._

"Why are you here?"

"I already told you, a message. Weren't you listening?"

"Oh please, that isn't a reason. If you had a message, you'd have delivered it by now and be on your merry way. We both have better things to be doing than standing here, staring at one another." _They don't seem exactly happy to see each other. Please don't let them have the same stubborn streak, my head can't take it... oh, no..._

"You're the great 'consulting detective'," the quotation marks were obvious in her inflection, "_deduce_ it." The woman, Elizabeth, definitely seemed to have inherited her brother's habit of antagonising her siblings. And he was so hoping for a quiet afternoon updating the blog.

"That coat you're wearing, it doesn't belong to you," _Oh joy, here we go..._

"Dull." _Yes, definitely related!_

"You aren't comfortable wearing it, yet you refuse to remove it; every time you go to wrap it closer to yourself you stop, as if the idea itself repulses you. I wouldn't be surprised if even _John_ noticed that one."

"Hey! I'm not a complete idiot, you know!"

"Boring! Come on, Sherlock, do people really pay you for this? All of that was completely obvious, anyone could see it." The scathing remark was all that the detective needed to let go of his restraint and reveal everything he'd deduced since the moment she left the car.

"You didn't want to come here, as far as I knew you didn't even know my current address, suggesting a threat of some sort; you call it a message. You walk with a limp in your left leg; it must be a new development as your posture hasn't changed to balance it out more comfortably. You struggled with the stairs but you didn't use the banister rail; could have been pride, more likely that sprain you have in your right wrist. The one you're holding." A glare, then she very deliberately moved her hands down to her sides before nodding for her brother to continue his assessment.

"You don't have your handbag, a purse or a mobile phone; either you don't intend to stay for long or you've lost it. The car left without you; lost it, then. Your hair's out of place, not enough for it to be easily noticeable, but enough for you to be uncomfortable with it; it wasn't you that messed it up. I'd say a man, judging by the coat." Elizabeth's jaw clenched and she glanced away briefly, long enough that it might as well have been a flashing neon tick above her head.

"Yes, definitely the same man. Leading us to your lips: lipstick is smudged, but only slightly. Someone kissed you, you didn't reciprocate. The shade is... bolder than you'd usually choose, you didn't select it; the same goes for your eye make-up. Then, of course, there's your neck. You have the coat collar raised, to try and hide it, but you knew I'd notice anyway so it isn't me you're hiding it from. A mark, a bruise on your pulse point; teeth marks, again presumably from the same man. There's still more, though. Oh, I am on a roll!" Her jaw clenched impossibly further, but she refused to look away. John's eyes widened, disbelief growing with every new revelation. If this were Harry, John would be seething by now, Sherlock just looked... smug. "Shoes,"

"I'm sorry, what about shoes?" John was brought back to the moment by the apparent non sequitur.

"What have I said about observation, John? She isn't _wearing_ any shoes, nor any socks," said the detective, huffing his frustration and turning back to the victim of his rant, "an odd choice around London, yet you can't have walked very far because your feet aren't dirty. Toe and fingernail polish don't match, so you obviously _had_ shoes, closed toe ones, but you appear to have misplaced them.

"Last, but not least, your clothes. We've established the matter of the coat, but its summer and you won't take it off, so you're either ashamed or embarrassed for me to see what's underneath it. Could be nightwear, underwear maybe? Perhaps your dress ripped and someone was _kind_ enough to lend you his coat. Well, am I wrong?"

The descent into sarcasm at the end wasn't _entirely_ necessary to John's mind, but there was no use bringing that up to the detective now. Confident in his success, Sherlock allowed himself the chance to regain his breath, taking his own turn to give his sister a cold stare as she carefully formulated her response.

"No. No, you were right. Right about everything, well done. You must be getting old, though, brother. You missed one thing." If this were Mycroft, he would be smirking, smug in his one-upmanship, but Elizabeth just looked sardonic and bitter, taking no pleasure from the detail her brother had missed.

"What have I missed, then?" There was nothing better than a challenge to keep the detective's attention.

"The note."

"What note? There is no note."

"Exactly," a small, humourless smile graced her lips, "I said I was here with a message, but I don't have one to give you. What do you make of that?" A pause. Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, his eyes flickering back and forth over the evidence as he figured out this newest problem.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"You _are _the message." There was no pleasure in his voice at this final deduction. He had finally realised the gravity of this situation, his sister's visit, her appearance, her attitude.

"Correct. You really are as good as they tell me, but then I knew that already, didn't I? Well? Aren't you going to guess who it's from?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**Sorry for the delay, life to sort out and stuff like that. On the bright side, I now have a brand new beta, Baratsuki, who has been kind enough to go over chapters 1 and 2 as well, so I've replaced them both with the edited versions. Chapter 4 is pretty much finished, and Chapter 5 is well on it's way, so hopefully you won't be waiting as long next time. Meanwhile, here is Chapter 3! Any feedback is welcome, thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Tap at my Window – Chapter 3**

"_Guess_?" Sherlock spat derisively, "I don't _guess._" Nevertheless, the word crept at his consciousness. He remembered the words of the deranged cabbie from his first case with John, _"a name that no one says." _He could understand it now, that nagging whisper that had been in the back of his mind during his most recent cases, present since the pool and magnified tenfold after the affair with "The Woman". It seemed so clear now, the word, the name. That name. "Moriarty."

"I thought you just said you didn't guess," his sister,-_and she always could be so irritatingly smug when she wanted to be,_-smirked, "You're completely correct, of course, but there's no way in this or any other universe that that _wasn't_ a guess. A bit paranoid, are we? Jim dear sends his love."

Seemingly bored of keeping up the appearance of 'unfortunate victim', Elizabeth walked over towards the seating area and sat down in Sherlock's grey armchair, eyebrow raised as if expecting a reprimand. John noticed that Sherlock had indeed been correct in his deductions; she did walk with a slight limp. His medical mind told him that it was most likely just a sprain; she probably went over on it whilst running somewhere. Sherlock let his usual emotionless mask slip for a split second to send a glare at the younger woman, before turning to face the mantelpiece, in full 'case mode'.

"Of course it would be Moriarty, I presume he told you how we... met?" At her brief nod, he continued on, "He told me I'd be hearing from him, I've been expecting something for a while now, he's been rather quiet recently. I can honestly say I wasn't expecting _this_, though. Cup of tea?"

"Milk, two sugars. Thank you, John." The response to a question John hadn't even asked drew his attention away from trying to make sense of the verbal tennis match and back to the present, where two pairs of ice blue eyes looked expectantly at him.

"What? Oh. Yes, of course," he started the oh-so-familiar route to the kitchen on autopilot, pausing at the door, "hang on, how did you-"

"How did I know you'd be the one making the tea? I've seen my brother's tea making skills firsthand on many occasions, doctor. I doubt they've improved much in recent years." Shaking his head, John shuffled over to the kettle, reaching into the cupboard for three mugs, completing the tea-making ritual he knew so well. He kept an ear out to try and tell what was going on in the other room, but the siblings had fallen silent. A quick glance back told him that both were still, eyes locked in a silent battle of wits. Elizabeth, it seemed, would not be giving any information willingly. His frustration obvious, Sherlock let out a huff of air and proceeded to try a different line of conversation.

"You know, you should really let John look you over. How exactly _do_ you know who he is, anyway? I know you can't have been in touch with Mycroft." A breath of air that could technically be classed as a laugh left the detective's mouth, and he seemed more than slightly amused at the dark scowl directed his way.

John made his way back into the living room, two cups of tea in tow. He handed one to the seated woman and placed the other on the mantelpiece next to the skull. Turning to collect his own, he stopped, "I'd quite like to know that, too." He wasn't expecting the response to be a scoff, accompanied by what could only be a well-practiced and long-suffering eye-roll.

"The two of you really are totally oblivious, aren't you? I'd expect it from my brother, but not from you, Doctor Watson." With the parted lips and vaguely offended look on his face, one could just as easily have assumed she'd just accused Sherlock Holmes of not knowing that 2+2 = 4. "That blog of yours, it's made you famous. You were all over the newspapers, didn't you notice?"

At the mention of newspapers, and with the implied reminder of _that damned hat_, Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and his expression returned to a more common sulking glare. John, who had tried his best to put the stage-door experience out of his mind, just sighed and nodded.

"I'd thank you not to mention that, Elizabeth. My work is not press fodder; even if John does insist on _blogging_ about it." Whilst Sherlock would admit that he would be lost without his blogger, that didn't mean that he was willing to admit that the majority of his recent cases appeared before him, not thanks to his analysis of tobacco ash, but through the exaggerated adventures presented by his flatmate. "Now please, will you just tell me what happened? Jim Moriarty wanted to send me a message. Obvious. But why now? Why you?" Clearly seeing that her brother was on the verge of one of his famous rants, Elizabeth decided the best course of action was to just swallow her pride and explain before he started, god forbid, _assuming._

"We've met before, your friend Jimmy and I. We're in the same line of work, sort of. Partly, at least. I work in finding lost treasures; he works in smuggling them and making money. There was a conference about 6 months ago in Beijing on the lost treasures of the Han dynasty. I was there for work, obviously. He, I realise now, was up to more... nefarious deeds. There was a display case, with jades, vases, other priceless artefacts. The night before we were all due to leave, everything vanished. Security was so tight you couldn't have even stolen a _pen_ from that museum. I never realised it was him at the time; he's a hell of an actor, isn't he? What was it you said, John? He pretended to go out with a friend of yours?"

Having never considered himself a man that had "friends", Sherlock felt the need to interrupt; "Molly Hooper, pathologist at Bart's. An excellent mortician, I have no doubt, but utterly useless when it comes to men."

A smirk, so reminiscent of their eldest brother, "I'm sure you'd know." Sarcasm fully intended and noted, thank you very much. "Anyway, we got talking, although he told me his name was James Smith. Very original. He told me he worked in antiques evaluation, attached to the British Museum. Complete and utter rubbish, but he certainly sold the role. No one would ever have guessed that he was behind it. When we were finally given the all clear to leave, he was returning to London and I was on my way to a dig in Peru. That was the last I saw of him, until three days ago, at least." Letting out a tired sigh, Elizabeth raised the mug of now-lukewarm tea to her lips, not seeming to mind the temperature.

"Yes, thank you for that lovely tale, Elizabeth, but you didn't _actually _answer either of my questions." Sherlock's patience was wearing thin; his sister had always been better in social situations than he was (_not, _he admitted, _that that was saying much_), but he knew she appreciated his need for facts first, feelings later (much, much later, maybe even not at all).

"Well, the 'why me' is obvious: I gave him my card, he followed your cases, learnt everything he could about you. It would be easy to find out that Sherlock Holmes had a younger sister named Elizabeth. Then there was an Elizabeth Holmes at the antiques conference he infiltrated. It's not exactly difficult to put the two and two together.

"As for the 'why now', you said it yourself; he's been quiet for a while. This is just a 'friendly reminder that he's still... interested.' His words, not mine. Now, _please, _would you bring me something to change into? If I don't get out of this godforsaken coat right now, your friend Dr Watson there is going to witness a full-on Holmes tantrum. You know that won't be pretty."

Sherlock briefly considered refusing, but then realised that if he provided alternative clothing, he would be able to examine the clothes his sister arrived in. Including the coat.

"Fine, you can borrow one of my shirts. John, if you'd be so kind as to lend her a pair of pyjama bottoms? But IF, and only if, you let John examine you. I very much doubt that those sprains are comfortable for you."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** So, here is chapter 4! In case you were wondering, this story is going to be less about action and more about character history and interaction. I want to give Sherlock a full background, so will be exploring that. And, of course, there's the ever-present threat of Moriarty. _Italics is a flashback to three days ago_. Thanks again to my beta **Baratsuki**! I'm hoping to get chapter 5 up sometime next weekend, but that isn't set in stone. Any feedback is good feedback, thank you for reading!

**Disclaimer: ** Still not mine!

**Tap at my Window – Chapter 4**

Having finally removed the coat, Elizabeth left the consulting detective pondering over it whilst she reluctantly retreated to the flat's small bathroom for the dreaded check-up. Before letting himself get distracted by the new puzzle before him, Sherlock took a moment to gather data on the rest of her attire. If he was honest with himself, it wasn't anywhere near as bad as he'd expected. The detective had believed himself fully prepared to face his sister in clothing either torn to shreds or entirely inappropriate for his viewing. Instead, he saw her wearing a simple white camisole top (_small bloodstain above the left hip)_ and blue shorts. From what he remembered, this was her usual choice of sleepwear.

"I want the rest, too!" he shouted after her as she all but fled the room.

John, who had the good sense to give his new patient a moment of privacy, collected a clean pair of his pyjama bottoms and a shirt of Sherlock's before heading to the bathroom. He found his quarry seated on the closed toilet lid, glaring petulantly at the wall. Deciding that it was in his best interest to get this over with as quickly as possible, John silently retrieved the first aid kit from the cupboard above the sink. He had no desire for this to become a repeat of the many times he'd had to practically manhandle his flatmate in order to examine him, so he knew that minimum fuss was necessary.

"I really am fine, doctor. It's only a couple of sprains." It surprised John that Elizabeth had been the one to break the silence. He had half-expected her to ignore him the whole time. Granted, she still refused to look at him, but it was a start, at least.

"Yes, well how about you let me decide that, ok?" John asked, using what Sherlock called his 'doctor voice'. Letting out a resigned sigh, she turned on the seat to face him fully, but kept her gaze firmly on the floor. The doctor's many years of experience, in hospitals, the army and finally as a GP, had taught him how to spot a nervous patient. Holmes or not, John knew avoidance when he saw it. "Right, let me see your wrist, please."

Still stubbornly keeping her face turned away from him, she held out her right arm. Easily falling back into a familiar routine, John went through all the motions of checking for a fracture. He made sure to regularly check what he could see of her face for signs of pain, and tried not to let himself become too disconcerted by the emotionless mask she wore. He'd seen this look on the face of his flatmate many times. Apart from one brief hiss of pain as he gently rotated her wrist, she kept completely still and silent.

"Well, it's not broken. I'm just going to put an elastic bandage on to stop you from overexerting it." John knew very well that his patient had already known it wasn't broken, and had it been Sherlock he wouldn't have bothered telling him at all, but he felt the need to keep talking, if only to try and keep Elizabeth's mind grounded in the current moment. He decided to take a calculated risk in asking what had caused the injury, "Look, you can tell me how it happened, or you can tell him. We both know I'm probably the less irritating option of the two." Knowing all the typical Holmes avoidance signs, John kept his eyes intently on Elizabeth's face, encouraging smile firmly in place. She closed her eyes for a second then, suddenly looking bone-tired, and raised familiar blue-grey depths to meet his.

"Jim Moriarty doesn't like to be told _'no'_," she said, barely above a whisper. For a moment, John thought that was all the answer he was going to get. Her eyes remained locked on his, seemingly searching for something, then she relaxed slightly upon finding whatever she was looking for. "Apparently, telling him 'no' when he's holding your hand is a bad idea."

"He was holding your hand?" John asked, confused. Why would someone with the power of Jim Moriarty feel the need to _hold hands_?

"That's what I said, yes. I'd just arrived at Heathrow; I was supposed to be going to a job interview. Well, I _thought_ it was a job interview. It was a complete set-up." The emotionless mask slipped for a brief second, and John saw a tired, bitter smile before it was put back in place. "There was a man in a cap there with my name on a cardboard sign. At first I thought it was one of Mycroft's people, he does that every once in a while. I was going to walk straight past him, but he took me by surprise."

_Collecting her small suitcase from the conveyor, Elizabeth Holmes quickly made her way to the arrivals exit. A cursory glance at the throng of people between herself and the doors revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but she came to a halt when she caught sight of her own name on a plaque. Mentally cursing her interfering eldest brother, she strode briskly towards the exit, determined to ignore the man she assumed Mycroft had sent to collect her. She had almost made it past when he suddenly appeared right in front of her._

"_Darling," he greeted, louder than strictly necessary, "I thought you hadn't seen me there!" It seemed like he was deliberately trying to draw attention to them. _Okay, _she thought, _not Mycroft then. His people are always discrete_. Alarm bells began ringing as he continued to speak. "Here, let me take your case."_

_His hand covered hers over the handle, firmly prying her fingers away. Catching the handle with his right hand, he kept and unyielding grip on hers with his left, tugging her after him through the crowd. _

"_Who the hell are you?" She managed to splutter out, trying desperately and without success to wrench her hand free. He paused for a split second, glancing back at her with a smug smile._

"_You mean you don't remember me?" The smugness gave way to an exaggerated pout, "I'm _so_ disappointed! We met in China." Here, the soft Irish lilt she'd barely noticed became a broad Yorkshire accent, "At that conference, remember? Things went... missing. Oops, silly me." The alarm bells in Elizabeth's head became wailing sirens._

"_The... the man from the British Museum? It was _you_?" She dug her heels in, bringing her escort to an abrupt halt. He turned to face her fully, smile firmly back in place and staring at her with those dark eyes, cold and fathomless. _

"_Well done! Finally she gets it! To be honest, I was expecting you to take at least another five minutes, you _are_ good!" The mocking praise was spectacularly obvious to both of them. He leaned in towards her, knowing that to the untrained eye it would appear to be a lover's greeting, whispering intimately, "Now come along, dear, we haven't got all day. You don't want to make a scene, do you? Big brother won't be very happy about having to clean up after you."_

_Elizabeth started at the mention of her brother. No one, _no one,_ knew about her family. This man, whoever he was, quite obviously did though. "What do you know about my brother? I'm not going _anywhere_ with you, now let me go!" She hissed, trying once more to pull her arm free. The grip on her wrist changed from secure to downright fierce; the look on his face was the coldest, hardest look she'd ever seen. _

"_Which one? I know quite a lot about your _brothers_, Elizabeth Holmes. We have quite the game of chess going on. Now, you are going to come with me, willingly or not. You should know, though, that if you choose 'not', I'm going to be very, very naughty. So naughty, in fact, that all of these people won't be leaving Heathrow. Terrorist threats are ever present, after all. Who would suspect any different in an airport? People should really be more careful." The smile was back again, but it seemed impossibly colder than before. The hand upon her wrist twisted sharply, bringing a gasp of pain to her lips. She finally conceded, letting her arm go limp in his grasp. "Good girl. Shall we?" He gestured for her to go ahead of him, suddenly all pleasant smiles again. _

_As she led the way to the exit, Elizabeth could only hope her decision hadn't saved one group of people, only to condemn another. Either way, whatever happened next wasn't going to be good._

As she finished her recount, she kept her eyes on John's face, waiting for a reaction. He sat silently for a few moments, processing new information and piecing it together with what he knew of Moriarty. He'd seen firsthand how good an actor he was. He'd also seen how willing he was to carry out his threats. If he had been in her position, he would have done exactly the same thing. They both knew that. He turned understanding eyes towards her and she relaxed infinitesimally, though her face was still expressionless. John saw it as another reminder that she was related to the stubborn detective. Sherlock always said that emotions weren't important, and Elizabeth obviously agreed. Without a word, she raised her injured ankle to rest it on the edge of the bath, John's cue to continue.

"Right, let's see, shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **I'm so sorry about the wait for this! Like I said, I've been super busy, ill, and then last week was on holiday in Vancouver, so life has sort of overtaken me. But, here it is! Thank you to the lovely **Baratsuki** for beta-reading this for me :) Now, to go and rest my tired and aching feet (walking for 8 days straight does that to you :P)

**Disclaimer: **Believe it or not, it's still not mine!

**Chapter 5**

Taking her offered ankle gently in his hands, John checked for signs of a break he knew he wouldn't find.

"Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?"

"I thought I'd try and do a runner. The opportunity presented itself. I didn't factor in Moriarty's extensive collection of garden ornaments, though. I tripped over a gnome."

John stopped his examination. He raised his eyes to Elizabeth's face in stunned disbelief. She blinked. He cocked his head to the side, eyebrow raised, with his 'really, Sherlock?' face in place. A standoff.

"You're a terrible liar."

Her lips twitched. Slowly, a full grin appeared, and laughter bubbled forth from her chest. John couldn't help joining in. To think, for a split second, he'd almost _believed_ her! Looking at her now, John saw, for the first time since this whole debacle had begun (_God, was it really just an hour ago?)_, some of Sherlock in his sister. Behaviour aside, the physical resemblances could just have been a coincidence, but there was no mistaking that grin. He saw an identical one all too rarely on his flatmate's face.

"Yeah, I know. It was a good one though! I figured you could use the laugh. How about you tell me what you know and we'll go on from there?"

This, he could do. John was used to being asked to share his own, limited, observations. Taking another look, he rattled off his findings.

"Well, judging from the location of the swelling and level of tenderness, I'd say it's a torn anterior talofibular ligament. It's a common sports injury, but I'm pretty sure we can rule out a tennis accident." He gave her a grin and received an appreciative smile in return, before continuing on, "no fingertip bruising, so it wasn't done by hand. It happened within the last 48 hours, but the lack of redness around the area says it was probably more than 24 hours ago. There's no obvious blunt force trauma, and yet there are no other injuries, so if it was caused by a fall then it wasn't a very big one. The only obvious answer would be that you tripped. So, how did I do?"

Elizabeth merely continued to smile mildly, waiting to see if he would crack and change his mind. When it appeared that he wasn't going to, she nodded her affirmation of his theory.

"You're absolutely right, well done. He wasn't interested in hurting me. Leaving a beaten victim for one of my brothers to find is entirely too pedestrian for Moriarty's tastes. No, it's better to make you think. Very few people know about our family ties, Doctor Watson. Even you didn't know, and you've been living with Sherlock for over a year now. Somehow, Jim dear found out. So he took me away for a 'friendly chat'. He tried the whole 'come to the dark side' spiel to no avail, not that he expected it. Then he decided to keep me around until the timing suited him.

For the most part he treated me like a royal prisoner. I was shown to a comfortable room that I wasn't allowed to leave without an escort. An escort that didn't take very kindly to being verbally deconstructed by a girl," she told him with a proud smirk, "so he got a little push-happy returning me to my 'cell', and I tripped on the doorjamb. Sorry if you were expecting something a bit more interesting, but that's really all that happened."

Finding no signs of deceit on her face, John shrugged and went about wrapping her ankle in a supporting bandage. When she gave a sigh of frustration, he reminded her that it was only for a day or two until the swelling went away completely.

"You're good for him, you know? Sherlock and I don't keep in regular contact, but it's easy to see that he's changed since you've been around. And that is a very good thing."

The doctor was surprised to hear this kind of talk coming from a Holmes of all people, but he couldn't help being slightly pleased by her comment. He'd always wondered if his being there had actually made any difference to the consulting detective. Any change that he had seen certainly appeared to be a grudging one.

"He doesn't seem to think so. He thinks sentiment is a waste of brain space."

Elizabeth laughed, giving him an ironic smirk, "Yes, so does Mycroft. They think that caring about someone puts them at a disadvantage. For such clever people, they really can be idiots sometimes. My father's influence, I suppose. Can I get changed now?" She asked him, a note of impatience in her voice.

"Not so fast. Don't think I haven't noticed that bloodstain on your top. Let me see, please."

With an irritated sigh and a muffled curse, Elizabeth got to her feet, gingerly putting weight on her injured ankle. She slowly raised the hem of her camisole, just high enough to let John see the cause of the stain. It was a stain, certainly, but it hadn't been caused by blood, after all. The colour was certainly what you'd expect from dried blood on white cotton, and the consistency was almost right (not that you could tell that from a distance), but it was ink. A small tattoo, about an inch square and done in blood red ink, lay over her hipbone. A capital 'M' intertwined with the outline of a crown. Even though John had never seen the symbol before, it was obvious what it represented. Moriarty's sign of ownership; another way to show Sherlock that he could so easily take away the things he cared for.

A glance at Elizabeth's face told him that he wasn't going to get an explanation this time, not that he really needed one. An initial tattooed in blood-red ink was fairly self-explanatory. He wordlessly cleaned the tattoo site, noting that he'd need to keep an eye on the irritated skin around it, as it obviously hadn't been cleaned before. Anyone who has a new tattoo knows the importance of regular cleaning.

"There, all done. You can get changed now, Elizabeth. Oh, and don't forget to leave those clothes with Sherlock, he'll never stop whinging if you don't do it immediately."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said with a grateful smile, but now looking decidedly in need of a good night's sleep.

"Please, won't you call me John? 'Doctor Watson' makes me feel like I'm at the surgery," he told her with a wry smile.

"Of course, John, but please call me Beth. Only strangers and my brothers call me by my full name."


End file.
